It's Pulling Me Back
by missAmberly
Summary: Steve Rogers is the last person qualified to help the Winter Soldier heal. But he's the only one Bucky trusts.


**Notes: **This fic picks up where /works/1514168 left off. I can't post that fic to , as it breaks the rules, but I wanted to post the continued work here. You do not have to read it to understand this, but it is highly suggested.

**Warnings:** None for this chapter

**Disclaimers:** I Do Not Own Marvel

* * *

Steve woke up alone. He sat up rubbing his eyes, looking around his bedroom for any sign that Bucky had been there. There was nothing. Not even warmth on the pillows next to him. Steve swallowed, then stood, running a hand through his hair. He needed to call Sam. Then Natasah. Bucky had been in his bedroom, Bucky had—Steve flushed red, swallowing. It had been a hell of a night.

He grabbed his cellphone on his way to the living room, dialing Sam and checking the windows. Bucky wasn't the type to take the front door. There had to be something, some proof that last night hadn't been a vivid dream.

"Steve?" Sam's voice was groggy. It was earlier than Steve had thought, if Sam was still in bed.

"He was here. He was—Bucky," Steve could hardly get it out.

"Bucky "the Winter Soldier, that Bucky?" Sam was moving around now. Steve could hear it through the phone. He ran a hand through his hair and turned, looking in to his kitchen and straight at Natasha. Natasha was leaning against his kitchen counter, one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised, teeth resting against the skin of an apple. Steve stared and blushed hot as she looked him over, the crisp sound of her bite echoing through the room.

"Steve?" Sam sounded a little panicked on the other line, and Steve realized he'd stopped in the middle of his sentence.

"I'm here. Look, just get here and I'll tell you everything," he said finally, voice steady. He was proud of that voice. Disconnecting the call, Steve folded his hands in front of himself, trying to salvage what modesty he might have left.

"Good morning, Steve," Natasha said from around her apple. Like she was in his kitchen every morning, watching him flounder naked through a phone call in the early morning DC light. Steve cleared his throat.

"Good morning, Natasha. How did you get in?" Steve took a step back. He needed to get dressed, but he refused to run. No matter how embarrassed he was. Natasha's only response was a raised eyebrow. Steve felt stupid: of course she broke in. He didn't know why he'd even asked. With a snort, he shook his head, turning around and walking to his bedroom. He managed not to run.

Steve dressed hurriedly, then made his way back to the kitchen. Natasha sat calmly at the table, hair crinkled and shining under the light from the windows. He gave her a cursory glance, then opened his fridge. Natasha had taken the last apple. Steve frowned, then sighed, taking out a bottle of Orange Juice. He drank straight from the carton, then wiped his mouth.

"Sam's on his way," he set the carton back in the fridge.

"I heard."

"Bucky was here."

"I heard that too," Natasha rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair with her arms over her chest. "Why didn't you call me last night."

"We were-busy," Steve was proud of himself for not flushing. His neck was hot, but his cheeks remained mostly clear. He cleared his throat, trying to look away from the steel trap of her gaze. The knock at the door saved him, and he opened it gratefully. Sam was all business as he stepped in. He nodded to Natasha, sitting next to her at the table. Steve bustled around the room, filling glasses with water and setting them down, gnawing on his lower lip. He didn't know where to begin. Luckily, Sam didn't seem to want to wait.

"So. Winter Soldier?" Sam started the conversation, dark eyes narrowed. Steve stiffened a little.

"Bucky was here. Last night," he couldn't bring himself to call him that. The Winter Soldier was what _they'd_ called him. Steve knew the man he'd held last night hadn't been Bucky. Not fully. But he hadn't been the Winter Soldier, either. He swallowed.

"You were too busy," Natasha asked, giving him a level look.

"Yeah. I was afraid he'd run. He stayed. Left this morning," Steve sat across from them, ignoring the look they exchanged.

"Steve. Do I even need to begin telling you that this is a horrible idea?" Sam leaned forward, hands flat against the table.

"He's right, Steve. The Winter Soldier is dangerous."

"Bucky would ne-"

"He's not Bucky anymore," she interjected. "And he may never be again." Steve choked, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. Bucky had been there. Just last night, his lips warm and soft, hands calloused and exactly how Steve remembered, holding him and stroking over his skin with the same care he'd used assembling a rifle. Sam reached across the table, squeeze Steve's shoulder, leaning in to meet his eyes.

"She's right, Steve. We don't know what they did to him."

Steve clenched his jaw, hands fisting on the table. He looked away, out the tiny kitchen window and into the early morning sun. They were his friends. They were worried about him. And he appreciated it, he did, but this was Bucky. Steve didn't know how to be afraid of Bucky. He turned back to them, face set.

"Bucky's my best friend. I'm not going to turn him away if he needs me," he said it firmly. Natasha sighed, muttering in Russian under her breath.

"You have no surival instincts," she informed him. Steve grinned a little, sharp and painful. He shook his head, watching Sam lean back in his chair and rub his head.

"Okay. Fine. You want to help your friend. I get that. But you're gonna need help," Sam gave him a hard look. "And not just with your friend."

Steve beamed at them. Natasha rolled her eyes, lips quirking a little. She headed for the door, stride purposeful as she walked the length of Steve's apartment. Hand on the door, she paused, turning to look over her shoulder at him.

"Oh, and Steve? You should probably stop having sex with him. At least until we know he's not going

to kill you," she smirked, shutting the door firmly behind herself. Across from him, Sam was choking on a mouthful of water, spraying over the table-and over Steve's flushed red face.


End file.
